Bad Influence
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: Falling through the Veil is a gamble; you never know where or when it'll drop you. Thrown into the '70s with no way back, Hermione finds herself hiding out at Hogwarts under an assumed name, befriended by a group of trouble-making misfits, and discovers that the mischievous influence within the Marauders was the one she'd always believed didn't have a bad bone in his body.
1. Dumbledore & the Space-Time Continuum

**DON'T BE ANGRY WITH ME FOR POSTING THIS! This is the plunny that broke my writer's block, so it deserves some love & attention D:**

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**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTES****:**

**(some points repeated from the A/N of my Time Turner fic,**_** Haunt**_**)**

**1)**This fic's full title is _Bad Influence -OR- How Hermione Granger _Accidentally _Created An Alternate Reality_**_, _**but that didn't all fit in the space provided by FFN XD

**2)** There is no intention for _Bad Influence _to be like 'this' or 'that' time travel fic that is already out there. I haven't actually read _any_ other time travel fics. Honestly, the idea just snuck up on me after remembering a meme in which it was pointed out that as James and Sirius both came from pure-blood Wizarding families, it was more than likely that they'd have picked up Muggle swear words from half-blood Remus. So I got to thinking, what if Remus wasn't the mild-mannered one everyone assumes? What if James and Sirius were always getting in trouble because they were carrying out plans created by Remus? And here we are.

**3)** May contain some AU elements. We don't have many solid canon facts about this time period (barring afterthought nonsense heaved on us via Pottermore), so I will go with things that feel right for this story, even if they fly in the face of what has been dictated otherwise in Post-DH 'canon' reveals.

**4)** Updates may be sporadic, chapter lengths may vary wildly (some chapters may be less than 2k, others may be over 5).

**5)** The rest of the cast will make their appearances next chapter, this opening sequence is really just to set the scene.

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**FANCAST** (just go with it [imagine them in their younger years 😉])

**If you do not agree with my fancast choices, feel free to imagine whomever you prefer in these roles**

Jared Leto as _Sirius Black_; Tom Hiddleston as _Remus Lupin_; Emmett J Scanlan as _James Potter_; Katherine McNamara as _Lily Evans_; Charlie Heaton as _Peter Pettigrew_ (any roles not listed intended as portrayed by their film actors).

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**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own _Harry Potter_, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from the creation or sharing of this work.

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**Chapter One**

Albus Dumbledore & the Space-Time Continuum

She landed hard on the floor, sprawled flat on her stomach. Well, that was unfortunate. Uttering an agonized _oomph,_ the witch curled onto her side and wrapped her arms around her midsection. The impact was disorienting, as was the pain, and she had to take a few silent heartbeats to remember what had just happened.

Last thing Hermione recalled was . . . the Department of Mysteries, okay, yes. She'd volunteered to spend the summer months between War's End and the start of her final, returning year at Hogwarts, assisting the Unspeakables in their research—none of which was she allowed to mention outside of the halls of the DoM, of course, keeping her bound by the same rules as those she was assisting.

All right, this was starting to make sense, she thought, as she remembered the dread that had pooled in the pit of her gut as Danvers . . . Mathers . . . some two-syllable _'ers_ name, led her down into the chamber which housed the Arch. She hated that bloody thing, and thought she'd find its existence unsettling even if her last memory of it hadn't been Sirius tumbling backward through its Veil after that bitch Belllatrix had tagged him with that _Stupefy_. She'd barely been conscious at the time, but she couldn't forget that flash of red. Couldn't forget the way Sirius' body had arced backward with the stunning effect of the spell and he'd fallen through the black, wispy curtain of the Veil. If only he'd not been in front of the Arch when he'd been immobilized . . . .

She stopped the forlorn acknowledgement in its tracks and concentrated her flagging attention on the situation at hand.

Hermione hadn't felt especially secure following 'Ers about, either, as he seemed the sort to have trouble finding his own arse with both hands—how he'd gotten a post as an Unspeakable was beyond her. But then, perhaps his sheer inability to communicate the many mysteries he encountered daily had been a considered a plus.

She gave herself a shake, trying to get her bearings. There was something familiar in the feeling of the room around her, but she still couldn't quite focus. What had happened next? Oh, that daft bastard. They'd been scanning the arch—an examination was conducted approximately every six months to determine if any new information could be gleaned about the Arch or the Veil within, but one had not been performed in some time given the misdirection of internal Ministry resources under Pius Thicknesse—and something unexpected had happened.

The Arch had made a _sound_.

The loud, unexpected noise, rather like the hollow, metallic gong of a large bell, had startled Ers-the-Timid, apparently, and he'd jumped . . . stumbled . . . . And the next thing Hermione knew, she was sent flailing through the Veil.

Maybe she was dead? She sat up gingerly, wincing as she kept one arm around her tender midsection and blindly reached out, searching for her wand with the other. No, no, she was pretty sure death would be less painful than this.

"That moron," she said in a hissing whisper.

Hermione realized she was facing a corner, and when she couldn't locate her wand, she was forced to finally turn and look about the room.

Still in pain, she shifted around where she sat . . . . And stopped short, certain she was still disoriented—perhaps suffering some sort of head trauma—as the wizard seated before her, his chair turned away from an ornate desk at his back as he held her wand pinched between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, yet out of her reach, was someone who simply could not be there.

In his other hand was the unmistakable artistry of craftsmanship that was the Elder Wand . . . and it was aimed at her.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Her voice was shaky as she tried to understand.

One of his silver brows arched above the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "Young miss," he began, his voice exactly as she recalled despite that there was the faintest edge of a threat buried beneath his tone. "I do not know who you are, nor how you circumvented my wards to get in here, but I will give you precisely five minutes to explain your abrupt appearance in my office before I become _angry_."

As she stared back at him, gaping and scrambling for what to say, she noticed that while he looked nearly as she recalled, the lines around his eyes were just a bit less pronounced. There was still some dark blonde mixed in with his wiry, lengthy silver hair. And his long beard, which she'd never recalled him trimming even once over the six years she had personally known the man, was shorter than she'd ever seen it.

Her skin iced over and her already large eyes opened wider, still. "What . . . Professor, what is today's date?"

His eyes narrowed, clearly unsure what to make of it that she kept referring to him with a note of familiarity in her wavering voice. "27th of August."

"And . . . ." She exhaled a shivering sigh and closed her eyes, willing the sudden, fearful tears she could feel gathering to stay precisely where they were. Lifting her lids to meet his gaze once more, she nodded slow. "The year?"

Albus Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes narrowed, gauging her reaction as he answered, "1977."

Hermione's face drained of color and another breath, this one loud and shuddering, escaped her before she could shield the sound with a hand slapped across her mouth. There . . . well, there'd really been no preparing for _that_, had there?

Oh, now she couldn't stop them. Stupid tears started rolling down her cheeks quite without her permission.

Her hand fell, numb, into her lap and she started a nearly incoherent bit of babbling at him. "No, no. I can't—this can't be. You can't be here. I can't be here. None of this, no, no, no! This can't be happening!"

Clearly having seen what he needed to—this was not some clever attempt by that wretch Tom Riddle to infiltrate the castle's defenses, whatever had happened had clearly traumatized this girl—Albus set both wands upon the desk behind him and returned his attention to her. Standing from his chair, he held his hand down to her.

"Here now, young lady," he coaxed in a warm tone. "Come take a proper seat, I'll have some tea brought up—you do look in dire need of a cup or two. Perhaps four."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she merely stared at his outstretched fingers for a few heartbeats. There was a decision to make here—while bearing in mind, of course, that he probably wasn't above slipping Veritaserum into that tea if he felt such a tactic warranted, and that the rules she'd adhered to as a pseudo-Unspeakable did not apply any longer given her circumstances. She knew Albus Dumbledore was not the doting grandfatherly wizard she and Harry, and all of Dumbledore's Army, had once thought him to be. Oh, that hadn't been entirely their fault; it was certainly a guise he'd cultivated and used to his advantage.

He was crafty, that was for certain, and while she couldn't always say his heart was in the right place—because dear Gods, what soul with any ounce of compassion would have left a child in the care of neglectful, mean-spirited relatives when other, safer, options were available, just to ensure the child's location remained secret to fulfill future plans?—he was calculating and shrewd, and_ could_ be kind when it suited his purpose.

If Albus Dumbledore was in a war, then you wanted him on your side, not as your enemy.

She could be honest with him about who she was and where she was from—he was someone who always knew more than everyone else in the room, after all, what was one more secret—or she could protect her secrets as well as she was able and try to go it on her own, but realistically she did not see herself getting very far that way. Her only option for how to find a way back home would be to strike a bargain with the man before her.

Nodding, she schooled her features and let him help her to her feet.

"Now," he said, deliberate in making a wide arc around his desk—she knew it was to keep her out of arm's reach of the wands in case he'd miscalculated in lowering his guard with her—to seat her in one of the chairs facing it. "Let us begin with introductions. It would seem you already know who I am. So, who are you?"

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Three cups of tea and an entire plate of biscuits later—she had no idea falling through the Veil could take so much out of a person—she finished explaining as much as she dared without divulging any specific details she might need for future bargaining. Maybe . . . if she'd fallen through and somehow landed in 1977 Scotland, maybe Sirius was here somewhere, too?

"That is quite the story," Albus said with a nod, stroking his not-as-long-as-she-was-used-to beard while he nodded.

Hermione frowned as she set down her empty cup against its saucer on the silver tea service dear little Winky had carted in. Oh, it had been difficult reminding herself at the last minute that she did not know _this _Winky. "That, Professor, is the sort of thing one says when they don't believe what someone is telling them."

His eyes narrowing pensively, he propped an elbow on his desk and balanced his chin on his fist. "I gather you were one of my favorite students during your time here."

"I don't know about that. I was more Professor McGonagall's favorite, but yes, you were a great influence in my life, too."

"Likely Minerva saw herself in you." He sighed and shook his head. "It is not that I do not believe you, Miss Granger, but it is a lot to take in."

"I suppose it is, yet you don't seem terribly surprised by anything I've said."

"Time magic is tricky at best, a nightmare at worst, and always capable of delivering most unexpected things, I find."

Hermione let it go unsaid that she'd always been curious why it was that he'd known how to use a Time Turner. It made perfect sense, in hindsight, that he'd dabbled in time magic, himself.

"That aside," he continued, "I believe it fair to say you might be in shock right now, as you are not reacting to your predicament as one would expect."

Her brows drew together as she regarded him in silence for a few seconds. She wasn't in shock, she was simply ignoring thinking on the worst case scenario. "What do you mean?"

"You don't actually know what happens to someone who falls through the Veil, do you? Not surprising I suppose, as not many have a solid notion on that."

The witch felt a violent thump in the center of her chest, completely cognizant that she was not going to like whatever he was about to tell her. "I'm not dead, am I?"

"I assure you, you are very much alive," he said with a dismissive wave of his free hand. "However, my personal research with into the Arch and its Veil—"

"Research you never shared with the Ministry." She understood suddenly with a sharp coldness, she also felt she was seeing a truer version of Albus Dumbledore than any person who 'thought' they knew him in this moment.

"The Ministry, like any powerful institution, is fallible. I trust myself, so it is with_ myself _such information remains." He paused for a quenching sip of tea. "My personal research suggests that while the Ministry is correct in surmising that once one has passed beyond the Veil, they cannot return, I believe I know the reason, whereas the Ministry does not yet have any plausible theories as to why that is. Your appearance here today, and your story, backs up my own theory."

Nope, didn't like this at all. It took everything she had not to curl in on herself, not to pull the warmth of her own body around the instant flash of iciness in her aching middle, as she waited for him to elaborate.

"The Arch, well, for lack of a better term, it is a hole what the Muggle world of science would call the space-time continuum. But it is an ancient artifact which predates such understanding. It is a meeting of magic and science without intent." The elder wizard shrugged. "The structure of science makes the magic more potent, while the chaos of magic makes the science . . . unpredictable."

She did not even currently have the presence of mind to question when Albus Dumbledore had learned about the Muggle discipline of quantum physics, but it was another thing she supposed made sense in hindsight. The man's brain should be studied.

"Unpredictable?" she echoed. Now that she'd heard that word, had heard his very astute and insightful theory, she realized the horror of what more he was about to tell her.

"The destination of one who falls through the Veil cannot be controlled or foreseen, there is no way to determine or track where they will find themselves, but the Arch is not a stable gateway, thus said destination _would_ be different each time."

She blinked back tears, feeling a stinging in the tip of her nose as she forced a nod. It felt so strange that the entire conversation alluded to Albus Dumbledore, war-time mastermind for the Light, considered her near-enough his intellectual equal that he expected her to understand everything he was saying. Maybe the way she'd explained her own story had given him that perspective. "So if . . . if someone else fell through, say, two years ago when I'm from, the likelihood of them being here now, or two years ago in your past is—"

"Infinitesimally small, I'm afraid," he concluded in a grave tone, clearly aware this was something difficult for her. "You know someone else who had fallen through?"

Hermione swallowed hard, aware that in 1977, Sirius, Remus, and the other Marauders were alive and well and preparing to begin their seventh year in just a handful of days. "I'd rather not say, if it's all the same to you. All I will tell you is that he was a friend."

"And you hoped you might be able to reunite with him?"

Lines of doubt creased her forehead as she shook her head. "Foolish, I know."

In that moment, she was reminded of why no matter what Albus Dumbledore had done, Harry refused to see darkness in him. He leaned closer across the desk, his blue eyes gentle as he held her gaze. "Hope is never foolish, Miss Granger, it is only the things we might do in pursuit of it that are."

A sad smile curved her lips. "But this is what you meant, isn't it? The Arch is uncontrollable, there's no way to determine where I would end up if I went back through, so I'm . . . stranded here."

Albus nodded. "That is one way to look at it. Your friend, wherever he is now, it is very unlikely you and he are in the same world at all, anymore."

Her entire frame sagged and she sank back in her chair, the weight of it all settling on her in one fell swoop. "Because his very presence in a time not his own would change things. Just like . . . ."

"Just like your presence, here and now, has already changed_ our_ future."

"There's no way back," she clarified, her tone hollow, "and the world is different now. I—I can't believe I was tripped and it _changed time_."

Albus shrugged. "From what you have told me thus far, it seems as though if such a thing could happen to anyone . . . ?"

Though she knew he was right, she couldn't stop herself from fixing the elderly man with a lethal glare the likes of which she'd never have dreamed of giving him when she knew him in her original time.

He was not at all oblivious to her impending meltdown, but she was still calm, still trying to process, so he ignored that she was probably hanging on by a thread and continued on. There was no way to tell what type of person this young woman was when she was handling grief, so best to get the matter sorted now.

"Based on what you have shared, I believe you possess information that can help end this war now, before it_ truly_ gets out of hand. Information that can help see to that very troubling second one you mentioned never coming about. I will make an arrangement with you; I know that was what you were hoping for, yes?"

She nodded, though the arrangement she was originally hoping to make involved her getting back home, so she could not begin to imagine what he thought to offer her. However, if he was correct, this was a new timeline, a new _world_. She could stop Lily and James Potter from dying, she could prevent Peter Pettigrew from betraying them . . . she could save Sirius and Remus without fear that she was damaging the future. "Go on."

"In exchange for the information you gleaned about the Death Eaters and Tom Riddle in your Second War, you will have my protection. I will enroll you here, under a false identity for the safety of any living relatives you may have in this time, where you will be safe and where you can have the time you need to heal and to start your life anew."

His words sent a shockwave through her and suddenly Hermione found herself blinking back a fresh wave of tears as a lump formed in her throat. Start her life _anew?_

This was _really_ happening. The world she knew was lost to her and her only ally, the only person in _this_ world who even knew her, was a man she was aware she could not fully trust.


	2. The Birth of Hermione Genevieve Guerin

**Chapter Two**

The Birth of Hermione Genevieve Guerin

"So, Professor Dumbledore tells me you were attending Ivermorny before the accident?"

Hermione forced a small, sad smile as she strolled along the street of Diagon Alley beside Professor McGonagall. "Um, yes." Since Hermione was not supposed to know her way around and didn't know anyone, part of establishing her new identity was to have a teacher show her about and help her collect her school supplies. Dumbledore had followed his gut instinct about how well Hermione would get on with Minerva McGonagall and tasked her with helping the new student.

Thus far, they'd handled most of the shopping whilst making benign chit chat, so Hermione supposed it was about time Minerva wheeled around to the subject she'd been so very obviously trying not to broach.

The elder witch's normally stern features were softened by a contrite expression as she rested her hand on the girl's shoulder, causing her to halt. When Hermione looked up at her, the professor gave a tiny smile of her own, clearly sympathetic. "I want you to know how sorry the school staff is to about your loss. We are happy to have you with us, of course, but the circumstances are simply . . . so tragic."

"_As a rule, we do not generally associate much with our . . . American cousins, if you will. Too many differences in rules, you understand." Dumbledore steepled his fingers before his mouth taking a moment as she looked over the list he'd written out. "I do, however, have some colleagues in the Ilvermorny school who owe me a favor or two. They did not ask questions when I requested that they _create_ and send along documentation backing up our story."_

_Hermione's brow furrowed as she lifted her attention from the scroll to meet his gaze. She knew he'd already been working on a story—that he'd already told something to the staff to clear the way for her having early access to the Gryffindor dormitories, and indeed being in Hogwarts ahead of the rest of the student body, at all. Since that was her second home for six years, he thought there was little point in taking away what few comforts she might find in the familiarity of particular places._

_She'd been delighted to see that the Gryffindor Tower she knew had not been different at all twenty years prior. Winky had brought her dinner in the common room and she'd eaten in front of the fireplace as she watched the sky darkened through the windows. But she never made it off the couch. Instead, alone, with no one to witness her misery, Hermione had cried herself to sleep where she sat._

_When she awoke the next morning, she wanted to tell herself her sobbing the night before had been cleansing, that it was necessary. That she was mourning her old life and her crying was the natural first step toward accepting that it was gone._

_She dressed in clothes the elves had thoughtfully supplied, doing away with the need to explain the style of her attire, which was common place for Muggles of the late 1990s, not so much for the mid-70s. Like any school, some students had simply left things behind, and she found she now 'owned' quite a lovely selection. As it was summer, she eventually settled on brown leather cork platform sandals and a paisley boho dress with bell sleeves and a dramatic v-neck to wear today, all the while breathing a sigh of relief that the fashion of this decade actually played _to _her wild hair rather than working against it. They'd gone so far as to only give her things left by students who'd graduated, so there was less chance anyone would raise a fuss about seeing their shirt, shoes, dress, what-have-you, on the so-called mysterious new student._

_As Hermione inspected her image in the mirror of the Gryffindor 7__th__ year girls' dormitory, she insisted to herself that she felt refreshed and renewed. It was a bit frivolous, but she suddenly had a desire for one of those big, gaudy necklaces to hang between her breasts . . . and perhaps a pair of over-sized sunglasses. Maybe one of those silver rings that covered most of your finger? _Ooh_, perhaps a mood ring! The attempt to distract herself only half-worked and she found her mind once more going over how relieved she was supposed to feel. Weeping for so long you lose track of time was supposed to have that effect, after all._

_But she knew there would be many more nights of crying herself to sleep ahead before she really felt at terms with her grief._

_While she made her way to the Headmaster's office that morning, she went back to considering the lighter and much less painful subject of fashion. Were toe rings in style now? What about anklets? She had no idea. She did still have her beaded bag—which strangely went with her ensemble perfectly—but since War's End, it only contained absolute necessities, like an umbrella, feminine hygiene products, and of course books, _and_ she kept plenty of Wizarding money stashed away. Perhaps she should exchange some for Muggle currency and treat herself to a shopping spree before the 1__st__ of September rolled around. After all, these outer clothes were quite pretty, but none of it was actually _hers_, and she didn't have any . . . under . . . things._

_Maybe a hat? One of those beachy, wide-brimmed ones._

_She marshaled her focus. This matter of who she was supposed to be_ now_ took priority over any calming frivolities. "And what is _our _story, exactly?"_

_He pursed his lips and nodded expectantly. "I find that . . . well, let us call a spade a spade, _lie_s are easier to remember if they are close to the truth. You have lost your family, after a fashion, and that is where our story begins. With that truth. Your given name will remain the same; there are not many Hermiones running about, but it is not a wholly uncommon name, either, and will simply make the transition easier on you. Your middle and last names are French in origin, if I'm not mistaken?"_

_She nodded. "Yes. Um, my father's family comes from France. He was born there, but they moved to London when he was young."_

"_That is good. Your new names should at least begin with the same sound as the real ones, and the ones I have selected for you are in keeping with that origin. You are Hermione Genevieve Guerin."_

_The witch's face pinched. "Guerin?" That soured expression quickly enough gave away to a thoughtful frown. "Though I have always quite liked the name Genevieve." She imagined telling people that in her family, they used their middle names—that was a custom for some families, after all—but just as quickly she dismissed the idea. Trying to assimilate was going to be difficult enough with responding to Miss Guerin, she couldn't imagine how much more issue she'd have if people attempting to get her attention by calling her _middle name_ found themselves constantly ignored._

_Rolling her eyes, she gave a reluctant nod. "Hermione Genevieve Guerin. Can I keep my birthday? The date, I mean, obviously the year has to change. It's 19__th__ of September. Oh, but um, I'm actually going to be nineteen this year, so I suppose we'll be lying about that, too?"_

_Albus waved a hand and shrugged. "What's one more? All right, so your new birthday is 19__th__ of September, 1959. This year, you will turn _eighteen_. You were born in London, you are a Muggle-born, but shortly after you discovered your magic, just when you had received your Hogwarts letter and began studying our ways and learning our terms, your father was transferred to an office overseas in America, leaving you little choice but to attend school there."_

_Her expression clouded over. "My parents are dentists."_

_His brows pinched upward in question._

_At the look on his face, she remembered the blank stares of her pure-blood classmates when she'd mentioned this during that Slug Club dinner. "Oh, um, a dentist is a sort of healer who looks after people's teeth. It's not exactly a position in which one gets transferred places."_

"_Ah." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps your parents had the opportunity to open a larger . . . what would be the proper term for a dentist's place of business?"_

"_A practice. And yes, I suppose that would work. A chance to open a larger practice presented itself in the States, and so we moved and I attended Ilvermorny." God, she hated that name. There was no rolling-off-the-tongue quality to it, whatsoever. "Got it all so far. Go on."_

"_Your House was Thunderbird—given what you've told me of your life thus far, it seems the best fit. You will, of course, be privately re-Sorted here—that you need not keep secret—unless you feel Gryffindor is still the proper place for you."_

_This was too much. Different Houses, even? Why, dear _God_, why? "Sure, re-Sorting. No big deal. Just restructuring my _entire _past, but by all means, keep piling on."_

_Albus' mouth plucked up in one corner in a way that let her know he didn't very much appreciate her sass._

"_I'm sorry, Professor, but this is all a bit much, isn't it?"_

"_Better to have as many details as possible to maintain this ruse, Miss _Guerin."

_Hermione sighed, her shoulders sloping as she nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry. Go on."_

"_Your studies would have been varied and tailored to your abilities, so whatever subjects and knowledges you've already acquired during your time as a Hogwarts student needn't be supplemented in any way. Your childhood here will explain your lack of American accent as well as any familiarity you might have with Muggle London, and your preparation to attend Hogwarts addresses your reluctance to embrace American Wizarding terms, as you'd always planned on returning to Wizarding Britain upon graduation."_

_He paused and she immediately felt her stomach ice over. She knew what was coming next._

_His voice was gentle and he spoke slow as he continued, "You are the only survivor of a car crash. Your parents and your familiar were lost. Your memory surrounding the accident is fuzzy, and you wish not to be pressed about any details."_

"_A car crash?" she echoed. Wasn't that the story Harry said the Dursleys had fed him about his parents' demise before Hagrid had erupted onto the scene and told him the truth? Oh, Hagrid! She was going to have to be careful she didn't slip and say anything suspicious around Hagrid if she befriended him, which would be hard as the lovable half-giant had a disarming quality about him._

_Hermione gave herself a sobering shake. That was merely a coincidence, as Dumbledore hadn't instructed the Dursleys to say that or Hagrid would've been warned, and car crashes were the simplest explanation for sudden deaths of Muggles, even Wizards knew that. It was a strange comfort, however, that this story provided a valid reason for her to seem depressed, or give in to the occasional bout of spontaneous crying. She could mourn the loss of the life she remembered without having to hide it._

"_Upon your recuperation, you expressed the desire to return earlier than initially planned in an attempt to move past your tragedy. And so, my colleagues at Ilvermorny reached out to me, and I pulled some strings to get you here before the start of the new school year so you have time to get settled."_

_She nodded, wondering briefly just what exactly he'd done for those American colleagues that they'd outright lie for him and not ask questions. Then again, this was Albus Dumbledore, and with everything Hermione knew about the man—and how very much she understood that _no one_ knew about him—she felt perhaps that was a question best left unasked._

_"There is one last matter."_

_"My memory?" They hadn't discussed it, but it was logical. It was precisely a road she'd consider were she in his shoes faced with a situation like, well, like _her_._

_Dumbledore nodded. "After you've shared your intel with me about the Dark Lord's plots, you have the option to forget your past."_

_"I know. I've thought about that. I mean . . . ." She averted her suddenly watery eyes, dropping her gaze to her fingers. "It would be nice, I suppose, easier to just . . . believe the life we're constructing here is real, that it's mine. But . . . no. I can't forget my parents. And I _won't _forget my friends. I may never see them again, but they're still part of me and I refuse to be separated from them."_

_Albus Dumbledore nodded, a warm smile curving his mouth as he reached out, patting a comforting hand atop hers. "And your wish will be respected."_

"Thank you, Professor, I appreciate the kindness."

"Oh, my dear, it's the least we can do after what you've been through. Now . . . ." Minerva paused, going over the list. They'd just come from Flourish and Blotts, Obscurus Books before that, Madam Malkin's had been the first stop. The girl had blanched at the mention of getting a broom, but eventually relented when she was reminded that while it was suggested all students have one, that did not mean they were required to use them, but better to have it and not need it than the other way around. "Books, quills, robes, broom, all taken care of. Next we have . . . oh."

Hermione's brows pinched together. Lifting her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright afternoon sun—definitely oversized sunglasses and a floppy, beachy hat—she looked over at the other witch. "What's wrong, Professor?"

"Hmm?" Minerva met the girl's gaze and then returned her attention to the list in her hand. "It's only, well, the final thing on the list is to . . . get you a new familiar, but I thought perhaps it might feel too soon for you to bond with another animal after the loss of your last one."

The young woman felt her throat close. She hadn't considered having to replace Crookshanks. Earlier when she'd looked over that very same list in Dumbledore's office, she hadn't really seen the words. It had been a mix of being distracted and of thinking she already knew what the list said. Typically, only first years were reminded to bring a familiar, but she was a new student, so she supposed the same reminders would apply.

Poor Crooks. He was going to give Harry such a hard time without her there. God, Harry! She snapped her eyes shut and pressed a fist beneath her nose, stifling a cry. No, no, they were alive. They were okay. They simply were not here. And Harry would take care of Crooks, because he was the only human save for Hermione that the kneazle-cat would let anywhere near him.

"I'm so sorry, my dear. We don't have to do this today!"

Hermione felt terrible that she was somewhat relieved at Professor McGonagall's misunderstanding of her reaction. She forced her eyes open and shook her head. "No, no, it's um, it's okay. I would very much like to, even if just to see what animals might be there. But perhaps we could take a break, first?"

"Of course, Miss Guerin." Minerva rested her hand on Hermione's shoulder once more as she looked around. "I have an idea. What say you to . . . ice cream?"

A laugh bubbled out of Hermione and she felt a little of the tension she hadn't even realized she'd been holding flood out of her. "Oh my Lord, that sounds _amazing_, Professor. Thank you."

* * *

"So, I said to the boy 'are you mad?' And he looks me square in the eye, announces proudly to the entire classroom ' No, Professor, I'm drunk. If that will be all?' and simply turns around to storm off."

Hermione sputtered a laugh into her chocolate sundae before managing to cover the sound with a crooked wrist. "I'm almost sorry I asked." She couldn't help but express curiosity about what she might have to look forward from her classmates—after braving the Weasleys and Draco Malfoy, Hermione was pretty sure she could handle anything. She also knew she could not ask directly about any of the students she was really curious to hear about without revealing that she knew more than she was supposed to, and so she listened to the antics of some random mystery boy.

"Oh, that's not nearly the worst part." Minerva shrugged, struggling to keep her features schooled. "He took three steps, stumbled over his own feet, fell forward and drifted off to sleep right there on the floor."

Bracing an elbow on the table, Hermione rested a hand against her forehead. Her shoulders shook in a chuckle as she shook her head. "What happened then?"

"Filch hoisted him up onto his shoulder and brought him into the school hospital. He didn't stir even once. Managed to sleep for ten straight hours, woke up seeming to think he'd dreamed the whole thing."

"Dear Lord, and I thought my classmates were bad."

"Oh, damn," the Professor muttered under her breath, setting down her spoon. "Speak of the Devil."

Hermione's face fell in confusion as she sat up straight. Sooner than she could ask about Minerva's sudden change in demeanor, or turn to follow the older woman's gaze, a voice called out, "Professor!"

The voice was familiar, but by the time Hermione had placed it, there was someone standing beside their table. Someone dressed in Muggle attire. Black jeans, a black leather jacket, a matched t-shirt underneath . . . .

Tipping her head, she followed the line of dark attire—as different from the light, summery look she'd chosen as night was from day—to the face. Her breath caught in her throat as she met a familiar pair of blue-grey eyes.

He was so much younger than the man she knew. Her own age. His beard not more than an exaggerated five o'clock shadow, his hair just long enough to brush his jaw.

And the way his attention dropped from her eyes to move over her before those thin but perfect lips of his curved in a smirk brought to her mind his room in Grimmauld Place. Those posters of motorcycles and cars and . . . bikini-clad Muggle girls he'd stuck to the walls with a charm so that even years after he'd left the house his parents couldn't remove them.

Perhaps then it should be considered fortunate he'd never set his sights on Lily Evans, because it was clear this particular pure-blood wizard fancied Muggle girls and Hermione looked very much the epitome of a Muggle girl right now.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Professor?"

Minerva gave a pained grin. "Of course, where are my manners? This is Hermione Guerin a recent transfer student."

"Ooh, a transfer? We don't get many of those. Pretty much ever." He held out his hand and Hermione reminded herself to breath as she slid her fingers into his.

The younger witch thought she could already feel a hint of exasperation ebbing off the professor. The elder witch might as well have the words 'damn teenagers and their hormones' stamped across her forehead.

"Miss Guerin, this is Sirius Black. One of your classmates . . . and the boy who showed up to my class drunk."

Sirius crinkled the bridge of his nose as his smirk broadened into a grin. "She always remembers the good things," he said with a wink.


End file.
